Mother’s Day Without Mom

Mother’s Day is a sweet day for me. I am well celebrated by my children and husband. I reside in the gentle beauty of my greatest role on earth – mother to my son and daughter. It remains the finest work I have ever done.

It is bittersweet for some. I’ve seen Facebook posts honoring moms, posts honoring moms who are no longer with us, those honoring stepmoms, and women who took on the role of mom.

Then, there is what isn’t said, which speaks volumes.

There are moms we could not celebrate today. There are those for whom the wounds are fresh, and those of us who have lived with loss and longing for a very long time. Why some mothers love and protect, and others don’t, remains a mystery to me.

Three decades ago, I had to abandon my mother. It grieved me deeply. It was a choice. Another act of will on the heels of several difficult decisions. And it hurt. I found this recently in going through old papers, and in that instant, my heart fell to its knees.

“Dear Mom,

“I am releasing me from you. I must open my hands, let go, and watch you slip away. The lady who carried me as I developed, who nursed me and gave me life, who must have experienced the miracle of birth as I did when I looked with wondering eyes at the perfection of my own children.

“By virtue of my birth there is connection there. By virtue of a child’s need to be loved, there is a bond there. By virtue of your betrayal to me, I now release myself from that connection. I mourn my loss. You were my mother. Only you did not know what that meant. My pretty, brown-eyed, brunette, “tomorrow’s-another-day” mom, who couldn’t deal with today, and buried all her yesterdays. I loved you. In letting you go I relinquish a part of my heart, but save my soul. Laura”

I’ve had decades to reconcile myself to this primal, wrenching loss. She was such a beauty. I can think back and find pearls of memory: Being snuggled in a rocker, catching a firefly and hearing her laugh, Christmas holidays filled with anticipation and tradition.

I have adopted Moms of the heart. I have relied on wise women to bridge the gap of what might have been had my Mom been different. So, on Mother’s Day 2017, unable to rescind the integrity of a decision made long ago, I did not post a note to my mom on Facebook, nor call her to celebrate.

This Mother’s Day will be filled to the brim with love, affection, and the laughter of my family. I am so lucky.

And as Dickens’ Tiny Tim would say, “God bless us, every one!”

Comments

Just completed “Fifth Sister”. I bought it used; how lucky I felt to see it was a signed copy. Glad you safely freed yourself, though I’m sure there will always be emotional scar tissue. Looked at some of your blogs; found I was hoping to see something indicating reconciliation with your sisters, or that they too had recovered from their past, but life can’t always be like a storybook.

Thank you, Andrea, both for reading the book and commenting about it. I call the residual stuff of our childhood ‘vulnerabilities’ and we each have them, in our own distinctive ways. I’ve written a blog, as yet unpublished, that will catch you up on several sisters. We lost Elsie eighteen months ago. I’m very proud of the resilience my sisters made use of as they made their way, for I know what it cost them to put one foot in front of the other to get there. And, you’re right. It wasn’t storybook. Thank you for indicating your interest in them – I’ll write something!

An avalanche sounds like a rifle shot. I glanced over my left shoulder when that crack reverberated down the mountain to see a plume of snow lift off the peak, fluff like cotton candy, and hold its pose for a split second before plummeting down the funnel of the ravine. It fell like a bridal veil, thousands of feet. I wish I’d have had the presence of mind to film it, but I tossed our camera into John’s lap as I leaped behind the wheel. “It’s an avalanche,” I said intensely and stepped a bit too firmly on the gas. My wheels spun. I tried again. “It’s above us coming down hard.” I wanted distance between that chasm and us. John looked back. “It’s beautiful! Like a waterfall.” Mm-hmmm and I wanted out of there.

I suppose a local would have known these were ideal conditions…heavy snowfall, a sharp rise in temperature, a sunny day. Perfect. It didn’t occur to us. We love Kananaskis back country. A sign welcomes you, and a hundred feet ahead, another warns you. You’re in avalanche country. Signs along the 60-kilometer Spray Lakes road will periodically tell you not to stop – you’re in the ideal location to get trounced by said wall of snow. I didn’t notice the first ‘Avalanche zone, do not stop’ sign, as I was spellbound by ice floes in the first lake to the left. And, I stopped to capture that breathtaking view. The avalanche plumed again as it came to a rest shy of the road, but it took thirty minutes for my heart rate to return to normal.

Upon our return, we stopped as the sun grazed the tip of Goat Mountain – not in an avalanche zone. I got out onto the snow-covered road for a better angle. Cat tracks – cougar as it turns out – the size of my fist were the only impressions in the snow and crossed the road into the trees a few feet ahead. I wish I’d taken pictures of the imprints, but my risk metric was riding high as in ‘let’s not tempt fate here.’ I listened.

We’re back in Canmore, drinking a cup of Sumatran coffee and enjoying Cranberry Nut Pound Cake. Who knows what the rest of the day will bring! ...